


Boxed In

by runawaycartoonist



Series: Boxer AU [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Boxer Stan has a boxing match, Fiddleford likes dat muscle, M/M, Mutual Pining, Mystery Trio, Pining, Slight Period-Typical Homophobia, Stan is bi, everything works out, fiddlestan, fidds is confused, fistfighting, ford is a loving and supportive brother, no angst here! just fluff!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 18:27:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6868489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runawaycartoonist/pseuds/runawaycartoonist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stanley's been training like crazy for his boxing match. Stanford has appointed himself as his coach, which means that Fiddleford's been tagging along on their training sessions. Not that he minds the chance to watch Stanley Pines lift weights... in a totally heterosexual way, of course (not).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pining for Stan Pines

**Author's Note:**

> Took a short break from my Stanchez fic (Car Thief) and my Relativity Falls fic (Gravity Falls: It's Relative!) to write dopey Fiddlestan. I love these nerds so much and GODDAMMIT, THEY DESERVE HAPPINESS.

Fiddleford was  _ not  _ staring at Stanley Pines. He wasn’t admiring his massive biceps while he did push-ups. He didn’t enjoy the way sweat slid down his forehead and chest. He most definitely did  _ not  _ stare at his butt as he walked away.

He wasn’t pining for Stanley Pines.

Heh, that was kinda funny. Maybe he should write it down.

The boxing match was tomorrow, and Stan had been training harder than ever in preparation for it. Instead of loitering around the house pestering Stanford while he did his research or tagging along with the two of them as a bodyguard while they went into the forest looking for trouble, he was at the gym, prepping himself for the upcoming match. When he wasn’t at the gym, he was practicing his moves on the punching bag they had back at the house.

Ford often joined him in his workouts, since he liked being fit and had appointed himself as Stan’s completely unnecessary “coach”. He’d boxed in the past too, but he’d never taken to it the way Stan had. Ford being there meant that Fiddleford was often there, too. He honestly had better things to do, like work on his thesis for his fourth doctorate, or re-read “Lord of the Rings” again.

Instead, he was jogging on a treadmill and watching Stanley lift weights.

He watched the muscles bulge and stretch as he bench-pressed. It was a hypnotizing sight, bordering on erotic for Fiddleford. He loved watching Stanley exercise in a totally heterosexual way. There was nothing wrong with enjoying another man’s display of strength and dominance. It was completely heterosexual, with no queer implications at all.

Fuck, he was bad at lying, even to himself.

Stanley pines was bench-pressing a hundred and sixty pounds.

Stanley Pines could bench press Fiddleford. As in, he was physically able to, and he had Fiddleford’s express permission.

“Fidds?”

“Yeah?” he slowed the treadmill down when Ford called over to him.

“We’re wrapping up,” said Ford as he slung a towel over his shoulder. “We’re gonna hit the showers. Do we have plans for dinner?”

“Um, I can reheat some of last night’s soup if you fellers don’t mind?”

“Sounds fine.” Stan stood and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I’m beat. Can’t wait to take a break from all this training and go back to running around in the woods like a nutcase.”

Fiddleford blushed. Why did Stan have to be shirtless?

“I’ll be along in a sec,” said Fiddleford, redirecting his gaze to the treadmill console. “Go on without me.”

Ford and Stan jogged off to the shower, cuffing each other playfully and laughing at some in-joke as they went.

Fiddleford turned off the treadmill and leaned against it, heaving a heavy sigh. He shouldn’t like Stan. Not only was it inappropriate to like his coworker, but he was a guy! He didn’t know much about queer folks, but he knew that he wasn’t one. He had an ex-wife and a son he barely got to see. He liked women, so he couldn’t like men.

He slowly dragged himself into the shower, praying that Stan and Ford would be done by the time he got there.

Of course, they weren’t.

Fiddleford had seen Ford naked, before. Often, and usually accidentally. That sort of thing tended to happen when you shared a dorm apartment with someone. Not to mention all the various incidents of rushed examinations after chemicals were spilled on their bodies, or some creature destroyed their clothes. The sight of Ford naked and in the shower was one that prompted no feelings whatsoever.

Stanley, on the other hand, was a different story. His nakedness prompted feelings in Fiddleford’s chest and groin that swirled in his stomach and confused him greatly. The only time he’d seen him naked from the waist down was in the showers. 

Like now.

“Hey, Fiddlestick,” said Stan as he entered the shower. “Gonna place a bet on me, tomorrow?”

“I don’t gamble,” he said firmly. Stan was naked. He would not react. He would not. React.

“Anymore,” added Ford obnoxiously. “Don’t you remember that time in college where we went to play pool-”

“I do, Stanford,” said Fiddleford curtly. “I still miss those two hundred bucks.”

“Two hun- holy shit,” said Stanley, eyes wide. “Goddamn. Well, I promise you that if you bet on me tomorrow, you’ll get double your money back!” 

Fiddleford forced himself to make eye contact and not let his eyes wander down, over his chest and stomach and down- nope, make eye contact,  _ make eye contact. _

“I might consider it,” said Fiddleford. He reeked like sweat and gym socks, so even though  _ Stanley Pines _ was naked in the shower and he  _ really  _ didn’t want to wind up in a compromising position with him, he peeled off his clothes and hopped into the shower.

He kept his eyes fixed on the wall of the shower while he scrubbed down, keen on getting out as soon as possible.

“I’m gonna  _ own  _ the ring, tomorrow!” crowed Stan, punching at the air.

“You sure are!” said Ford, giving him the finger guns. “Who’s the man?”

“Stan’s the man!” Stan beat his fists on his chest like Tarzan and letting out a loud cheer.

Ford chucked the soap at Stan and hit him in the temple. “Goof.”

“Nerd!” He tossed it back, smacking Fiddleford instead. “Oops! Sorry, Fiddle-dee-dee.”

Fiddleford found it hard to be caught up in his excitement when  _ Stanley Pines  _ was  _ naked beside him.  _ Still, he couldn’t help but chuckle. Even though the twins were so different, they were so alike in so many ways aside from their looks.

When he kneeled down to grab the soap, he couldn’t resist sneaking a peek over at Stan’s naked body.

Holy Moses.

He was very well-equipped.

He stood quickly, finished washing his hair, and shut off the shower. He towelled off, ignoring the twins as they tossed soap and shampoo bottles at each other, willing the blush to leave his cheeks.

“What kind of soup do we have?” asked Ford as he pulled on one of his many turtlenecks.

“Chicken,” said Fiddleford. “And, if I’m not mistaken, we might have some apple pie left over from last week.”

“I love apple pie,” said Stanley, buckling up his belt.

“I know,” said Fiddleford. His blush still hadn’t gone away. “I saved it for you.”

“Oh, you know how to charm a man, Fidds!” said Stan with a laugh.

Stanford scratched at his chin, squinting at Fiddleford. Fiddleford gave him a questioning look as he buttoned up his shirt.

Before Fiddleford could ask Ford what was bothering him, Stan launched himself at him.

“Stanley Pines, what in tarnation?” Fiddleford squawked as he found himself in a headlock.

“You were staring off into space, Fiddlesticks,” said Stanley, grinding his knuckles into Fidds’ head. “Just waking you up!”

“Stan, stop that!” said Ford, clearly amused. “He looks like he’s gonna have a heart attack.”

“Pssh, spoilsport!” Stanley hefted Fiddleford in his arms. “You’ll have to rescue him from the big, bad Stan-Dragon! He’s like, uh, what’s that girl in your dumb nerd game called?”

“Princess Unattainabelle?”

“Yeah! Her!”

Ford smirked, coughing to hide his laugh. “I’m not sure how bad he wants to be rescued.”

Lord, if  _ Ford  _ could notice his blush, surely everyone could! He clutched at Stan’s shoulders to avoid being dropped, not that Stan ever would. He buried his face in Stan’s chest and groaned dramatically.

“I ain’t no princess!” he protested, his voice muffled by Stan’s shirt. He smelled like woodsmoke, fruity soap, sweat, and cigarettes. It was mouth-watering.

“Down you go, then,” said Stan, placing him gently on the floor. He patted his head, and Fidds swatted his hand away.

“Go start the car, Stan,” said Ford. “I just wanna ask the Doc something, first.”

“About what?” asked Stan.

“The gastro-combustion theory and how it applies to nuclear thermodynamics.”

Stan wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, nerd stuff. Sure, just don’t take too long.” He trotted out of the locker room, whistling and swinging his red jacket over his shoulder as he went.

“There’s no such thing as a gastro-combustion theory,” said Fiddleford.

“I know,” said Ford, sticking his hands in his pockets. “I just wanted to get Stan outta here so we could talk.”

“Oh?” His voice sounded awkwardly high to him. He looked around, glad that it was Wednesday afternoon and the locker room was empty.

“Yeah.” He looked awkward. Stanford was good at that. “So, um. Do you like my brother?”

“Um.” He wasn’t sure whether there was a right or wrong answer to that question. Would Stanford fire him because he was a queer? God, he hoped not! He wasn’t even sure if he  _ was  _ a queer, the only guy he’d ever liked was Stan. He twiddled his fingers awkwardly and said, “Why?”

“I’m just curious,” said Ford. “You’re a nice guy. Stan could use someone like you to cuddle up to at night.”

The tension slipped from Fiddleford’s shoulders. “You’re not… mad?”

“The universe is a crazy, chaotic place!” said Ford with a laugh. “It doesn’t matter to me who you love, as long as you’re happy and healthy!”

Fiddleford desperately wanted to hug his friend. He gave him a relieved smile. “Thanks, Stanford. I really appreciate that.”

“Stan likes you, too.”

What?

Fiddleford’s heart skipped a beat. He blushed. “H-he does?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Ford. “I  _ know  _ my brother. He never shuts up about you, when we hang out. It’s always, “Fiddlesticks and I were doing this”, or “Fiddlenerd said that”. He only gives nicknames to people he really likes, you know.”

“Oh.” Stan had a million nicknames for him. In the beginning, he thought they were annoying, but now they seemed utterly charming.

“He even remembers your birthday,” he said. “The only birthday he remembers is ours. Trust me, Fidds. He likes you a lot. He’s just too dense to notice that you like him back.”

“I didn’t know he liked me,” said Fiddleford.

“Don’t take it personally,” said Ford, waving him off casually. “He’s really good at keeping secrets, if he wants to. He’s never  _ told  _ me that he likes you, but it’s so obvious that even  _ I  _ noticed. So… what are you gonna do about it?”

“I dunno,” said Fiddleford. “Quite frankly, I never thought I’d get this far. Before I met Stan, I thought I was straight and… I guess I’m a little confused.”

“Stan calls himself bisexual,” offered Stanford. “Bi meaning two, referring to two genders.”

“Oh.” He kind of liked the sound of that title, but he wasn’t sure how much he liked guys. So far, he just liked Stanley. He decided to tuck the word away for future reference.

“You know,” said Ford, “Stan’s never gonna notice if you drop hints. You’re gonna have to be upfront with him if  you wanna get anywhere.”

“Yeah, I know,” said Fiddleford, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ll think of something.”

“Pro tip,” said Ford as they left the locker room, “he’s a huge romantic. He loves romantic gestures. Not over-the-top ones, but little ones like breakfast in bed. His old girlfriend Carla memorized his favourite songs and made him a mix-tape and he wouldn’t shut up about it for  _ weeks. _ ”

“Something romantic. Huh.” He filed that tidbit of information away, too.

It was chilly outside. Fiddleford wrapped his scarf around his neck and Ford pulled up the collar of his trenchcoat to brace against the cold breeze.

The Stan-Mobile was parked at the curb. Stan beeped the horn.

“Come on, nerds!” he called.

Ford dashed over to the car and opened the passenger door.

“Oh, no,” said Stanley. “You can sit in the back.”

“What?” protested Ford. “But my legs always jam up against the back of your seat!”

“Not my problem, bub!” said Stan. “Fiddlesworth! Come sit shotgun!”

Fiddleford quickly climbed in before Ford could fight him for dominance. He glanced into the back as Ford buckled up.

He winked.

Maybe Ford was right. He looked up at Stan.

Stan winked, too. Blush creeped up Fiddleford’s neck as he fastened his seatbelt.

Hoo, boy. He was in deep.


	2. Good Luck Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanley has a boxing match. Fiddleford is his good luck charm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two out of two! Thanks for people who've read this, I hope you like it.  
> Disclaimer: I dashed this out between two other fics (Car Thief and Gravity Falls: It's Relative!), so if you like stanchez or relativity falls, go check 'em out!

“Are you ready, Stan?” asked Ford, gripping his brother’s shoulders tightly.

“I was born ready, Ford. Stop pestering me.” Stan slid on his boxing gloves.

Ford tightened up the laces for him. “You gotta be  _ ready,  _ Stan. Nobody’s gonna get the drop on you!”

“No way!”

Fiddleford took the top off of the water bottle and placed it into Stan’s gloved hand. “Be careful out there, Stanley.”

“Aren’t I always?” he asked, then he took a big drink of water.

“No, you’re not,” said Fiddleford. “You are never careful. You are the opposite of careful, Stan Pines.”

“Pssh, then why’d you ask?” He gave Fiddleford a cocky grin. “Gonna lay some money on me, tonight?”

“I already did,” said Fiddleford.

“What?” asked Stanford, eyebrows raised in shock. “How much?”

“Not telling,” said Fiddleford. He couldn’t resist putting his hands on Stan’s shoulders. “Just letting you know that you have my confidence.”

“Thanks, Fiddlestick,” he said, grinning.

Fiddleford shivered and blushed. He picked up Stan’s mouthpiece. “Um… one last question? Do you believe in good luck charms?”

“I don’t  _ not  _ believe in them,” said Stan. “They can’t hurt.”

“Well, here.” Fiddleford pressed a kiss to Stan’s cheek.

Ford tactfully looked away, but he was relieved. It was about goddamn time that those two idiots figured each other out. He had stored a box of condoms under the bathroom sink, just in case. He was Brother of the Year.

Stanley was bright red when he pulled away. His mouth flapped uselessly as he tried to think of something to say.

Fiddleford was shocked. He’d rendered  _ Stanley Pines,  _ conman extraordinaire, world-class salesman, completely speechless.

And he took it the wrong way.

“Oh, lord!” Fiddleford said. “Stanley, I’m sorry! I should’a asked, I-I didn’t mean-”

“Shh,” said Stan, putting a gloved hand on Fidds’ forearm. “It’s fine, Fidds. More than fine, it’s…” He let out a small laugh. “Good. Real good.”

Fiddleford let out a sigh of relief. He lightly tousled Stan’s slicked-back hair. “In that case, there’s gonna be another one waiting for you when you win.”

Stan’s face broke into the biggest, silliest grin he ever saw. “I’m gonna hold you to that, Fiddlenerd.”

“ _ Up next, _ ” said an announcer from the ring. “ _ Stanley “Knuckles” Pines versus Anderson “Cleaver” Cooper! _ ”

“That’s our cue,” said Ford, grabbing his towel and water bottle. “If you make one guy go down, that’s good. Two guys, that’s better. Three guys, we’re sitting pretty for the next few months. So, y’know, no pressure.”

Stan rolled his eyes as the three of them walked out of the dressing room.

People cheered when Stan entered. There were several familiar faces amongst the crowd, and it seems that some of Stan’s friends from Gravity Falls had driven all the ways to Portland to see him fight. Stan thrust his fists into the air, grinning crazily as he jogged up to the ring.

Ford cheered along with the crowd and Fiddleford trotted along behind, waving to his friends from town as he followed the two of them to the ring.

“Good luck,” said Fiddleford as he held up the mouthpiece for Stan.

“I don’t need luck, babe. I got  _ skill. _ ” He opened his mouth.

Fiddleford gave a huff as he popped the mouthpiece in for him.

Then he realized that Stan had called him  _ babe. _

He could get used to that.

He watched Stan climb up into the ring. His butt sure looked good from down here. He had the urge to slap it, but now was  _ really  _ not the time.

The bell rang.

Stan threw himself into the fight, no dancing around, no holding back. He could take twice as much as he could dish out, and that was saying something. His opponent tried to slug him in the jaw, but it seemed like Stan barely noticed. He jabbed and ducked and dodged and with just a few blows, Anderson Cooper was down.

Stanford whooped and cheered for his twin, clapping his hands and stomping his feet along with the crowd, occasionally shouting out advice like, “ _ Left hook, Stan! LEFT HOOK! _ ”

Fiddleford jiggled his leg and crossed his fingers tightly, gnawing on his lip.

When Anderson stayed down, he got caught right up in the excitement with Ford. He leapt to his feet and applauded, shouting, “ _ Way to go, Stan! _ ”

Stan turned around and gave him a thumbs up (tough to do while wearing boxing gloves), grinning around his mouthpiece.

He climbed down from the ring. Fiddleford took his mouthpiece out and cleaned it with a tissue while Ford handed him a towel and a water bottle.

“Easy as pie,” said Stan.

“Don’t get cocky,” said Ford as the newcomer entered the room to the cheers of the crowd. “A cocky boxer is a beaten boxer.”

“You made that saying up,” he said before taking a long drink of water.

“Doesn’t mean it’s not true,” said Fiddleford. “Stay wary, Stan. Keep on your toes.”

“I could use another good luck kiss,” said Stanley with a goofy grin.

“Um.” There were a lot of people around, and Fiddleford didn’t wanna get badgered for being queer.

At the same time, he couldn’t say no to Stan’s adorable dopey grin. He quickly placed a kiss on Stan’s cheek.

Stan grinned even wider. Fiddleford popped the mouthpiece back in, and Stan climbed up into the ring, again.

This guy was called Thompson Terrace and he was almost easier than Anderson. He was tall and thin and clearly hadn’t been at this game for too long. He was good at dodging, and every missed punch made Stan growl through his mouthpiece, and was it weird that Fiddleford found that to be  _ super  _ hot?

Thompson Terrace went down after two rounds. The only person that cheered louder than Stanford was Fiddleford. Stan climbed out of the ring for a drink of water.

“Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy,” said Stan when the mouthpiece was out.

“That  _ was  _ easy,” said Ford as he handed him the water bottle. “But the next guy isn’t. He’s gonna be a real piece of work, I promise. That’s him, over there.” He pointed to the other side of the ring.

Stan glanced at him, but soon his eyes were back on his twin. “Sure, sure. When I win, let’s get pizza, okay?”

Ford huffed and dabbed at Stan’s sweaty shoulders. “Fine.”

Stanley flashed Fiddleford a charming smile. “So, Fiddlesworth, how about that-”

Before he could even finish, Fiddleford pressed a lightning-fast kiss to the corner of his mouth.

Stan grinned. “You’re my luck charm, sweetheart!”

Sweetheart. Heh. Fiddleford liked that a  _ lot _ .

This fight was against a guy called Jimmy “Snakes” Jones. He was big, tough, and mean, and his long hair was tied back with a bandana. He even had an old scar on his face that looked pretty badass and scary. He looked to be the sorta guy that would make Fiddleford cross the street if he was walking home alone, at night.

Stan didn’t exactly make quick work of him. From the moment Stan threw the first punch, it was obvious that it was going to be a long fight.

Fiddleford watched on the edge of his seat, gnawing on his lower lip, his fingers tightly crossed again. Stanford bellowed out advice and encouragement to Stan as he dipped and ducked, throwing jab after unsuccessful jab at his opponent.

Jimmy caught Stanley in the cheek and sent him flying across the ring. He was down.

He got up after three seconds. The crowd roared.

Stanford ran up to him and Fiddleford was on his heels.

“Keep it together, Stan,” said Ford, dabbing away the blood and mucus from his bloody nose.

“You okay, darlin’?” asked Fiddleford, surprised at how easily the pet name came out.

“Mmhmm,” grunted Stan through his mouthpiece. He looked surprised at Fiddleford for calling him that, but certainly not displeased.

“You can do it,” said Ford.

“This guy’s got nothin’ on you, darlin’,” said Fiddleford. “Go get ‘im!”

“Hmph!”

Stan was back at it when the bell rang. He fought with renewed vigour, as if he’d just started the fight. This Jimmy guy was way taller than Stan, which meant Stanley had a clear shot at his abdomen.

He took it.

With a winded wheeze, Jimmy almost doubled over. Stan managed to get a good, solid punch to the jaw, followed by a left hook.

Jimmy was down for five seconds. He forced himself to stand up.

“Round three,” said Ford when he was back up to the ring. “You can do it, Stan! You’ve got this.”

“You can get this feller, darlin’,” said Fiddleford.

Stan grinned through his mouth guard. He gave a clumsy thumbs-up through his glove.

Fiddleford chewed on his nails as Stanley raised his fists once again. The bell sounded, and Jimmy threw the first punch.

Stan dodged neatly, dancing around him and jabbing him in the side.

Jimmy caught his jaw with a glancing blow, but Stan didn’t go down. He slid closer, aiming for the sore spot on Jimmy’s ribs.

It worked, and Jimmy let out a grunt of pain. People cheered and booed for Stan, and Stan took half a second to revel in it before dodging another blow.

“ _ COME ON, STANLEY! _ ” shouted Ford. “ _ SHOW HIM WHAT YOU GOT! _ ”

Fiddleford was frozen. He couldn’t muster the will to cheer. His eyes were glued to Stan, his fingers tightly crossed.

Stan caught another blow to the cheek and slumped against the side of the ring. His posture screamed of exhaustion, but his eyes burned with determination.

On impulse, Fiddleford blew him a kiss.

It was a silly gesture, but Stan was a romantic, after all. With it, his resolve strengthened and with a roar he threw himself at Jimmy.

With three well-placed blows, two to the diaphragm and one to the jaw, Jimmy was down. The count reached ten, and he didn’t rise.

The referee held Stan’s fist in the air and proclaimed him the winner.

The crowd let out an earsplitting cheer. Ford roared in triumph and Fiddleford hooted and clapped. The two of them crawled up into the ring. Ford slung an arm around him and ruffled his hair with six fingers, and Fiddleford wrapped his arms around him tightly and hugged him. He didn’t care that he smelled like sweat, not one bit.

“Hey, are you McGucket?”

“Yes?” Fiddleford turned and saw a guy standing by the edge of the ring. It was the guy he’d given his betting money to.

“Here.” He handed him an envelope. “Your money. You’ve got a noggin’ for betting, kiddo. Keep it on the down-low, though.”

“Yessir.” He snuck a peek at the number written on the inside of the envelope.

_ Holy jumping shitballs. _

He held two thousand bucks in his hands.

“How much?” asked Stan as they climbed out of the ring.

“Two thousand,” whispered Fiddleford reverently.

“ _ Holy shit! _ ” said Ford.

Stan just laughed.

Fiddleford safely stowed the envelope on the inside pocket of his blazer. Possibilities swam through his mind, but they were pushed down and away by the noise and heat and excitement. He’d think about the money, later.

Stan had to stay and sign autographs and pose for pictures for a few minutes, but Fiddleford knew he wanted to leave. He could read it in his too-wide eyes and his exhausted posture. Leave they did, after about twenty minutes of talking and shaking hands. They snuck back into the dressing room, and Stan changed into some better clothes for the street.

“Pizza,” said Stan when he finally climbed behind the wheel of the Stan-Mobile.

“We passed a takeout place on the way here,” said Ford as he slid into the back. “I can run in and grab something.”

“Sure. Just none of that shit with pineapple on it, fruit and pizza don’t mix.”

“Tomatoes are fruit,” said Fiddleford as they pulled out.

“Pssh, yeah right.” Stan turned on the radio. “I’m not  _ stupid. _ ”

Fiddleford was too tired to argue. He rested his elbow on the windowsill as they drove to the pizza place.

“What’re you gonna do with that money, Fidds?” asked Ford. “That’s some serious cash.”

“I have no idea,” he said honestly.

“Maybe you could stop pussyfooting around and move in with us,” said Stan. “Or get a car.”

He gave a small shrug. “Maybe to the first thing, no to the second thing. I like it when you drive me around.”

Stan grinned and blushed.

“I think I’m going to invest it,” he said, adjusting his glasses. “Or maybe use it to keep working on personal computers.’

“Ugh, this again,” said Stanford, folding his arms. “That’s a waste of time, I tell you!”

“I think it’s a good idea,” said Stanley.

“Seriously?” asked Ford.

“Don’t crush his dreams, lord knows the world needs more of them!” said Stan. “Plus, how cool would it be to be able to watch movies anywhere you want? Or take your work with you when you travel?”

“Exactly!” said Fiddleford, waving his hand emphatically. “Stan, you’ve convinced me. I’m gonna keep working on portable computers.”

Stanford grumbled to himself about floppy discs existing for a reason, but Stanley gave him a thumbs up. Fiddleford felt his chest swell with pride, and something else, too.

They pulled into the pizza place. The parking lot was completely empty, and crickets chirped from the bushes outside.

“I’ll be right back,” said Stanford. He slipped out of the car and jogged up to the restaurant.

“So, um,” said Stanley, turning to Fiddleford. “You sorta promised me another kiss?”

“I did, didn’t I?” said Fiddleford, blushing.

Stan braced his beefy forearm against the back of the seat and smirked suggestively.

Fiddleford put a hand on his forearm, loving how the muscle felt under his hands. His heart hammered in his throat.

Stan quirked an eyebrow. He was waiting for Fiddleford to make the first move.

He did.

Fiddleford pounced on Stanley, hastily pressing their lips together. He wrapped his arms around his neck and clutched at his massive shoulders.

Stan chuckled as he pulled away. “Easy, Doc.”

“Sorry.” Fiddleford let out a nervous giggle and went in for a softer kiss. It was smooth and sweet. Stan’s scruff scratched against his cheek in the most wonderful way. He smelled like sweat and cigarettes, and it made Fiddleford’s head swim. He let his lips part and tasted him, and Stan hummed into the kiss.

It was wonderful.

When Ford came out of the restaurant five minutes later, holding three boxes of pizza, they were still kissing.

Ford grinned. Finally, they’d stop that stupid dance of crushing on each other but not knowing what to do.

Then he saw Stan grab Fiddleford’s ass and he wondered if having them be a couple would be  _ more  _ obnoxious than having them just crushing on each other.

Oh, well. They deserved a little happiness in this crazy, chaotic universe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this AU ends with Fiddleford getting rich off of his inventions and the Mystery Trio becoming Dipper and Mabel's Grunkles and everything works out and this dorks get to be happy, THE END  
> Comments? Questions? Typos? Shoot me a message!  
> (also, if this gets enough kudos, I might post a smutty follow-up!)


End file.
